PAIN.
My heart was once a folded flower,
Within whose jewel-tinted cup,—
Still hidden even from itself,—
A wealth of joy is treasured up.
But now my heart is like a flower
From which a dainty humming-bird
Has rifled all the choicest sweets,
And left without one last fond word
The flower-soul so deeply stirred.
And once my heart was like a gem,
Set in a rich betrothal ring;
Unconscious in its darkened case
How fair it lies there glittering.
But now I think my heart is like
The lady who has worn the ring,
And draws it from her finger slight
With love’s bewildered wondering
That love should be a poor bruised thing.
And once my heart was like a nest,
High in the apple branches hung;
Where in the early April dew
No happy birds have ever sung.
Now ’tis itself a wounded bird;
And though sometimes you hear it sing,
The Heavenly Father knows what pain
It tries to hide by uttering
The same sweet notes it used to sing.